


I'm Looking for a Place to Land

by jacyevans



Series: A Better Place Since We Came Along [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst and Feels, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Emissary Claudia Stilinski, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, Good Deucalion (Teen Wolf), Hale Family Feels, Humor, It's Okay, M/M, Original Character(s), Pack Dynamics, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Stilinski Family Feels, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, Trauma Recovery, these boys don't realize they are both nice things, we'll get there eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: “Hey, Alpha,” Stiles says, and Derek drops his bag and wraps his arms around Stiles’ back. He presses his face into Stiles’ neck, muscles relaxing the way they haven’t since the full moon.Stiles huffs, hugging him back just as tightly. “Missed you, too, big guy.”When Stiles and Scott travel back home for winter break, Derek and Cora join them for their stay. Home, where Stiles struggles to ignore the memories that being with his mother’s pack always brings. The more Derek discovers about Stiles’ past, the more he thinks about his own family. Moving forward means confronting his fears in the one place he swore he would never step foot in again: Beacon Hills.Of course, Stiles would never let him go alone.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: A Better Place Since We Came Along [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/829275
Comments: 15
Kudos: 72





	I'm Looking for a Place to Land

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE:** This is a sequel fic set in an alternate universe. If you haven’t read the first fic in this series, you might not be able to follow what’s going on.  
> 
> 
> GUESS WHO’S BACK, Y’ALL.
> 
> First things first - this is not a repost. After the first two chapters of the original went up, I received some disheartening comments. I wasn’t able to touch the fic for months after that. Inevitably, it was better, both for the fic and myself, to scrap my original plan and try something else. I was able to salvage and edit some of the scenes, but otherwise, this is an entirely different fic.
> 
> I also went back and made some minor edits to “You Can Stay” - nothing that would require a re-read (unless you want to, then go for it). The biggest change is Cora is no longer dating Lydia at this point in the story.
> 
> I’ve based Deucalion’s personality on the person we see during the Alpha Summit with Talia in Season 3A flashbacks, and what I believe he was like before Gerard took his sight. I haven’t seen past Season 4 of the show, so I have no frame of reference for his characterization in later seasons.
> 
> There are also several OCs. While they do not have a huge bearing on the plot, they are people who are important to Stiles and will be present for the first half of the fic. Besides Cora and Scott, the rest of the Hale pack will not feature as much. This part of the series is very much Stiles and Derek-centered, with a focus on the trauma in both of their pasts and what it takes to finally start moving forward, together.
> 
> Thank you to the ever-patient, wonderful friend that is redbelles, who was exceedingly patient with a NY native trying to describe WA geography and failing spectacularly. Without her, this fic would not exist.

Derek raises his face to the sky, inhaling the cold Washington air. 

“It’s going to snow soon,” Cora says, stealing his hot chocolate from his hand. She lifts it to her mouth as they walk across the tarmac and into the terminal at Sea-Tac Airport. The snow won’t stick here in the city, but up in the mountains, they’ll get plenty.

Derek takes back his cup and ignores her grin. “Good.” Now that he's out of Queens, he’s ready for a good blizzard.

He frowns, lowering the cup. “Wait, how soon?”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Alpha, it shouldn’t be until after your precious emissary picks us up.”

Derek grumbles into his cup. Two days after he asked Stiles to be his emissary, he was off with Scott on a flight home for Christmas, where he would stay for the remainder of his winter break. They spoke almost every day he was gone — well, Stiles did most of the talking, while Derek listened and made noises to show he was paying attention. It just wasn’t the same as having him there, especially when they’d had so little time together after that night in the park.

Derek almost booked a flight out for New Years, but Stiles would be with his mother's pack, and he didn’t want to intrude on what brief time they would have together. Imagine his surprise when he received an invitation from Deucalion himself, asking Derek if he and his sister would like to visit for the remainder of Stiles and Scott’s stay.

Cora nudges his shoulder with her own, breaking him from his thoughts. “You really miss him, huh?” She grins, eyes sparkling in a way that spells trouble. “Going to kiss him hello?”

Derek spits his hot chocolate all over his jacket. Cora jumps out of the way, cackling.

He wipes at the mess with a napkin. “He’s my emissary, not my boyfriend.”

“That could be easily remedied.” She wiggles her eyebrows. She’s been at this for weeks, poking at him to ask Stiles on a date. He can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. He was able to curb most of his attraction to Stiles even after asking him to be his emissary. 

Then, Stiles left, and all Derek could think about is how much he misses the scent and the heat of him, the sound of his laughter and his heartbeat.

“Hey,” Cora says, dragging him from his thoughts. “I’m teasing. I just want you to be happy.”

“I don’t want him to think the only reason I asked him to be my emissary is so I could get in his pants.”

Cora drinks the rest of his hot chocolate as they round the corner to baggage claim and chucks the cup in the trash. “Trust me, Der. Stiles doesn’t care if you want to get in his pants. I’m pretty sure he would give you an engraved invitation if you asked. _You are cordially invited to a party in my pants._ ”

“Oh god, don’t give him any ideas,” Derek groans, poking Cora in the side when she laughs. They wait for their bags to finally appear on the carousel, then head out the doors to Arrivals.

They're barely standing there a minute before he hears Stiles’ heartbeat as he falls out of the passenger seat of a black Chevy Tahoe. His brow furrows as he searches the crowd.

His heart speeds up when he sees Derek, a grin breaking across his face. “Hey, Alpha,” he says, and Derek ignores the flutter that one word sends through his stomach.

Derek drops his bag and wraps his arms around Stiles’ back. He presses his face into Stiles’ neck, muscles relaxing the way they haven’t since Stiles and Scott left a week ago. Stiles smells like fir trees and juniper, the woodsy lemon-balm scent of John and Melissa, and a sharp pack scent of spearmint and ginger that must belong to Deucalion.

Stiles huffs, hugging him back just as tightly. “Missed you, too, big guy.”

The sound of a car honking its horn makes Derek jump. Scott leans towards the open door of the Tahoe and clears his throat. “Uh, dudes? I hate to interrupt, but if we don’t get out of here soon, the cab behind me is going to mutiny.”

Derek glances over to the Uber parked directly behind Scott, frantically miming for them to move away from the curb. Derek rolls his eyes, but he ducks his head to hide the flush on his cheeks.

“They have the entire sidewalk, they have to use this one particular space?” Stiles asks; Derek silently agrees.

Scott raises his eyebrows and pops the trunk open. “It’s almost rush hour, dude.” 

“Oh, whatever.” Stiles takes the suitcase from Cora, dropping it into the trunk. “Let’s get in the car. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Cora drawls, ducking the elbow Stiles attempts to drive into her ribs. 

Stiles scoffs. “Like you should be one to talk, Miss ‘I can eat an entire pizza by myself even though Stiles paid for it.’”

“ _Stiles_ should have ordered enough pizza to go around.”

“ _Cora_ shouldn’t waltz into other people’s apartments and eat their food uninvited.”

Scott shares an exasperated look with Derek, who chuckles as he places the rest of their bags into the trunk. He climbs into the backseat, slapping the beta on the shoulder. Cora throws herself in beside him while Stiles drops into the passenger seat, the two of them still bickering all the while.

They drive onto the freeway and immediately get stuck in traffic. Stiles and Scott argue about a video game and whether or not someone named Liam totally kicked Stiles’ ass, interspersed between Stiles cursing at the other drivers and Scott yelling at him for side-seat driving. Stiles catches Derek’s eye in the rearview mirror and the wry twist of his mouth warms Derek through.

"So, are we staying at your place or at the packhouse?" Cora asks, shoveling a handful of Sweedish Fish into her mouth. She leans forward to toss one into Scott's open mouth.

Stiles throws up victory arms on his behalf. "The packhouse. Dad has a place nearby, but it's pretty small. He spends a lot of time with Deucalion anyway when he isn't working." He manages to catch the candy Cora tosses at him over the headrest. He stuffs it into his mouth. "It was fine when just me and my Dad lived there, but with Melissa living there now, plus Scott and two extra people? There's only one bathroom. Violence would be imminent."

Cora tosses him another piece of candy, laughing when it gets lost down the front of his shirt. Stiles flails, trying to shake it into his lap without undoing his seatbelt. Derek chuckles under his breath.

Stiles flushes. "Shut up," he mutters, shoving the offending candy into his mouth.

Derek watches the scenery pass by out the window, letting the voices in the car wash over him. The city gives way to open fields and fir trees. These eventually thicken to hemlock forests as they travel through the mountain pass. Snow coats the ground beside a rolling river, half-frozen over. Rugged, white-tipped mountains cradle them on all sides. Derek cracks the window and takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of pine, fresh snow, and wet earth.

They’ve been driving almost four hours before they finally reach their turnoff, traveling another few miles around sharp turns. Derek’s stomach twists as they pull onto a dirt road into the woods, past a sign declaring the area private property.

Derek clenches his jaw; he’s about to meet Stiles’ former pack, including the man who was practically Stiles’ second father. Deucalion’s opinion means the world to Stiles - and he’s pretty sure, after the way he behaved when Stiles was speaking to Madison, he’s not exactly in the man’s good graces. Derek wants to make a good impression.

By the time they pull up to the house, his stomach has dropped to his shoes. He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. Snow is falling steadily now, and a dusting of white sticks to the ground.

“Snow,” Stiles says mournfully, looking up at the sky. A snowflake lands on his face. He bats at the tip of his nose.

“We’ve barely gotten an inch all winter in New York,” Derek says while Scott unlocks the trunk. 

“You haven’t spent the last week in the mountains. It’s snowed the entire time we've been here. Last night, I almost froze my dick off.”

“That would be a shame,” Cora drawls. Stiles gives her the finger.

Derek turns to look at the house, a sprawling two-story log home with a wraparound porch and a perfect view of the surrounding mountains. He breathes deeply, smelling cedar and freshwater from a nearby lake. For a moment, he’s transported back to their home in Beacon Hills before the fire, and his breath catches in his throat. He half expects Laura to come skidding around the corner, teasing Derek for running too slowly. 

“You okay?” Stiles asks, brow furrowed.

Derek nods, shaking off the memories. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Stiles frowns but doesn’t ask him again.

Scott takes their bags, dragging them up to the front door. “Incoming!” He yells before he disappears into the house. 

Derek hears a pair of footsteps barreling towards them. Stiles yelps, almost falling as someone jumps onto his back.

“Caught you,” a child’s voice says. She’s only wearing one unicorn slipper, the other abandoned at the front door in her haste to climb Stiles like a monkey.

“Jesus, Chloe, did you have to maul me?”

“Mommy said I’m not allowed to maul anyone.”

“It worries me that your mother needed to make that distinction.” Stiles grunts, reaching his arms back to support Chloe’s legs. “Derek, this is Chloe—”

She interrupts, “His favorite person ever.”

“You wish, short stuff.”

Chloe blows a raspberry. 

Stiles makes a face, rubbing his wet cheek against his shoulder. “Chloe, this is Derek, my alpha, and his sister, Cora.”

Chloe appraises him the way Erica appraises new furnishings before she allows Derek to decorate the apartment. “You don’t look like an alpha.”

“Chloe,” Stiles hisses.

Derek flashes red eyes. 

Chloe’s eyes flash gold in response. “That’s not impressive, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek responds, automatic at this point after saying the same to Stiles so many times. There’s no question as to where Chloe picked up her attitude. 

Chloe huffs into Stiles’ hair. “Okay, dude.” She wriggles out of Stiles’ grasp, losing her other slipper and kicking Stiles in the hip on her way down. Stiles whimpers, grabbing his side while she runs back into the house.

“Cute kid,” Cora says, grinning.

“You say that now. Wait until she’s waking you up at 5 AM by standing on your face.” Stiles sighs, crouching down to pick up the forgotten unicorn slipper. “Come on.”

Derek and an amused Cora trail him into the house. They follow Stiles’ lead, removing their jacket and boots at the door. Stiles picks up Chloe’s other slipper, tossing them into a disorganized pile of shoes of all sizes. He hangs their jackets on the coat rack beside the front door.

Stiles waves for them to follow through a living room with plush, comfortable-looking couches and squashy armchairs in front of the large windows. The curtains are pulled back, allowing the winter sunlight to brighten up every corner of the space. Footsteps echo above their heads, and Derek looks up at the high ceiling with simple pendant lights attached to the exposed beams. He hears voices from other corners of the house, a tea kettle whistling in the kitchen, someone stomping their feet.

Stiles leads them past a staircase and down a long hallway to a room at the very end. Hardwood floors change to thick carpet as they enter a study, the walls lined with shelves crammed with books.

There’s a mahogany desk to the left of an arched window with a built-in seat, where Deucalion is seated next to John Stilinski. Their conversation ceases as soon as Derek and Cora enter the room.

“Took you long enough,” John says, standing up.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That is not my fault. We hit traffic, and then we were attacked by a tiny child at the front door.”

“I thought Reyna told Chloe she wasn’t allowed to maul anyone anymore,” Deucalion says, fingers tapping at his walking stick. 

“Why doesn’t anyone but me worry that her mother needed to make this a rule?” He shakes his head. “You know what? I changed my mind. I don’t want to know.” 

“Lie,” Deucalion says.

Stiles sticks out his tongue. 

“Put that tongue back in your mouth or your face will get stuck that way.”

“You can’t even see my face!” Stiles splutters.

“That doesn’t give you an excuse to be rude.” Deucalion’s lips pull into a smirk. Derek chuckles, while Cora laughs outright.

Stiles spins around and glares at the pair of them. “No comments from the peanut gallery are necessary at this time.”

“Is that how you speak to my invited guests?” Deucalion asks, the room full of the scent of his amusement. He presses his hand to his sternum in false offense. “Where are your manners, Mieczysław?”

“Yeah, where are your manners, Stiles?” Cora says, eyes twinkling.

“I hate everyone in this bar,” he mutters under his breath. He heaves a sigh. “Deucalion, this is Derek Hale and his sister, Cora Hale. And you already know my dad.” He waves at John.

“Thanks, son,” his father says, dry as dust.

Deucalion stands, crossing the room and offering Derek his hand. His presence fills the space, or maybe that’s only because Derek’s senses are so heightened in his anxiety.

“Alpha Hale,” Deucalion says, shaking his hand. “Nice to finally make your acquaintance. Stiles has told me a lot about you.”

Derek inclines his neck, even though the man can’t see the gesture. “He’s told me a lot about you, too, Alpha Blackwood.”

“Please, drop the formalities.” He pats Derek’s hand before letting go. “Call me Deucalion. Or Duke. Everyone else does.”

“Or Old Man.” Stiles grins.

John’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “Claudia used to call him that,” he says, sharing a smile with his son that’s only a little sad.

“I am five years older than she was,” Deucalion says with a sniff. “That is not old by anyone’s definition.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Stiles says; Deucalion knocks him in the knee with his cane with unerring accuracy.

Stiles yelps, leaning down to grab his knee. He hops around on one foot, saved only by the wall he falls into. “Ow! Easily bruised human here!”

“You’ll survive,” John says.

“I am offended. I am betrayed. Betrayed, I tell you!”

“Has he always been this melodramatic?” Derek asks, while Stiles squawks in protest.

“His entire life,” Deucalion says, grinning.

Derek heaves an over-dramatic sigh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“And now you turn my alpha against me?” Stiles groans, collapsing back against the bookshelves. “I’m feeling faint. All is lost.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Stilinski, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll do it for you.”

“No one asked you,” Stiles hisses.

“Why don’t I let you get settled in before he starts to swoon,” Deucalion says, shaking Cora’s hand. “Stiles, show them to their room.”

 _“Show them to their room, Stiles, before you start to swoon,”_ Stiles mimics under his breath. “Remind me again why I ever come back here.”

“Fresh air,” Deucalion says without pause. “I distinctly remember you saying something about the smog in New York clogging your pores.”

Cora bursts out laughing, grabbing onto the doorway and swinging herself out of the room.

“Nice meeting you,” Derek says, because someone needs to have manners in this pack, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be his sister or his emissary.

Deucalion’s smile softens. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Stiles huffs, grabbing Derek’s arm and dragging him out the door. He tugs Cora back by the collar of her shirt when she walks past the staircase, ignoring her slapping hands.

“So, that was Deucalion,” Stiles says, herding them up the stairs.

“He’s not how I imagined he would be,” Cora says. Stiles grunts as she shoves him off and sends him stumbling into Derek.

Stiles tugs his shirt down as he rights himself. “What, stuffy, superior, and old-fashioned?” He smirks. “It’s the accent.”

“Where is it from anyway?” Derek asks, one hand on Stiles’ arm as he guides them down the hall.

“No one’s sure. I’m pretty sure he made it up so he can sound smarter than everyone else.”

 _“I heard that,”_ Deucalion says, but Stiles doesn’t appear to hear as he ushers them into a bedroom on the left. Derek chuckles, relaying the message.

“Old Man!” Stiles shouts. He pushes open a door directly across the hall, a mirror of his and Cora’s room: two double beds, one covered in a crocheted quilt, with a nightstand between, the opposite wall blank except for a door. Scott is sitting on the bed against the windows playing a game on his phone; he gives them a wave. 

“I’m bunking with Scott,” Stiles says. “Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. No phones at the table except in emergencies — house rules.”

Cora raises an eyebrow, but she removes her phone from her pocket and tosses it onto the pillows without complaint. 

Derek follows her lead. “Any other rules we should know about?”

“Any of the food in the kitchen is fair game, but if you touch Melissa’s chocolate, she’ll murder you in your sleep.” Stiles gives them a cheerful smile. “There’s a bathroom attached to your bedroom. Let us know if you need anything. Snacks, water, towels—”

“Sexual favors?” Cora sits down on one of the beds, elbow on her knee, perching her chin on her hand. Scott snorts without looking up from his screen.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Not that you aren’t hotter than the surface of the sun, but I am zero percent attracted to you, Baby Hale.”

“I didn’t say for me,” Cora says, smirk pulling at the edge of her mouth. Derek feels his face flush to the tips of his ears.

“The— you— I—” Stiles stutters. He reeks of sweat and lust. His skin reddens from his hairline to the base of his neck; Derek wants to bite it. “I have to— away.” He speeds across the hall, slamming the door at his back. 

Derek can hear Scott cackling on the other side. He turns to glare at his sister with as exasperated a glare as he can muster in his embarrassment.

Cora leans back on her hands, unaffected. “Party in his pants,” she says with a smug grin.

  


* * *

  


Stiles almost falls flat on his face as he slams the door. Scott is still laughing hysterically, holding his arm against his stomach.

“Dude!” Stiles hisses. “Not cool! You’re supposed to be my emotional support wolf, not laugh when I’m emotionally compromised.”

Scott doesn’t even attempt to curb his snickering. “What’s the matter? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?” His attempt at a leer is one of the most ridiculous things Stiles has ever seen.

“What the fuck is your face even doing right now?”

Scott tosses his phone onto the table between the beds. “It’s a leer.”

“It’s a tragedy.”

“You’re a tragedy.”

Stiles shakes his head, dropping his cell phone beside Scott’s. “I have no idea what Isaac sees in you.”

“Hey, we’re talking about your love life, not mine.”

“Love life,” Stiles scoffs, throwing himself onto the bed on his stomach hard enough that Scott bounces. “For that to be true would imply that I actually have a love life and am not so painfully single that the only action I’ve seen in the past two years is my own left hand.” He makes a lewd gesture with said hand for emphasis. 

“I know, I’ve heard you and your left hand through the wall.”

“Because you and Isaac are so much quieter when you’re rounding third base on our poor, defiled couch.”

Scott makes a face and shoves Stiles’ arm back down. “Seriously though. If you want Derek, just ask him on a date.”

Stiles leans up on his elbows. “Just ask him out? That’s your sage advice?”

“You got any better ideas?”

Stiles’ mind flashes back to Thanksgiving, to him and Derek sitting on the couch in Derek’s apartment, leaning towards each other and sharing breath; the electricity that zinged down his spine and the way his magic pulsed to life for the brief moment their lips almost touched.

He shakes his head, standing up from the bed and dragging Scott to his feet. Stiles opens the door and shoves Scott out into the hall. “Whatever, dude. Let’s get downstairs before all of the food is gone.”

“Food,” Scott says, still grinning, “Right.”

Stiles mimes strangling him, clomping down the stairs. The loud, raucous voices of his mother's pack echo down the hall.

Warmth settles in Stiles’ chest as he focuses on his bonds with the Hale pack, the way he has every day since leaving New York. Deucalion smiled the moment Stiles entered the house a week ago, congratulating him on finally finding a pack of his own. Stiles’ heart fluttered. Scott poked at him for being sappy, but his smile was just as fond the moment Stiles mentioned Isaac. 

Stiles throws himself against the wall as the door to the kitchen swings open. Chloe squeals, jumping on top of Scott and tackling him to the floor. Someone made the mistake of teaching her how to tackle her opponents, and she insists on practicing with anyone who happens to cross her path. Stiles still hasn’t discovered the culprit, but when he finds out, he’s going to kill them. He’s pretty sure it's Liam’s fault. Because it’s always Liam’s fault.

Scott twists just in time to take most of her weight, but he still wheezes, winded. “Hi,” he squeaks. “Chloe, you’re crushing my ribs.”

“You’re a werewolf, you’ll survive,” she mutters; she rumbles happily, squeezing him tighter when he attempts to get up. 

“Reyna!” Scott yells. “Your daughter is mauling me!”

“No mauling, Chloe,” she deadpans from where she’s stirring something in a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon. Melissa stands at her side, laughing into a glass of wine.

Scott groans, thumping his head back against the floor and submitting himself to the overbearing snuggles. Stiles snickers and steps over them in search of food.

He inhales, leaning into Reyna’s side. “Do I smell chili?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Chloe finally releases Scott and runs into the kitchen. “No running in the house!” Reyna yells, glowering at the ceiling and cursing under her breath in Spanish. She slaps Stiles’ hand with the spoon when he reaches into the pot with a finger.

“Depends on whether or not she’s allowed to give your new alpha the third degree,” Melissa says, eyes lighting up like the sheer idea of interrogating Derek brings her no small amount of joy.

Reyna was his mother’s best friend. They met in college when Deucalion brought Claudia to meet his pack; her husband, Lincoln, is Deucalion’s second in command. 

They were inseparable from that moment forward. Reyna held Stiles on the day he was born. Melissa met Reyna after Claudia died when Stiles and John were spending time away from Deucalion’s pack. The two of them take their role of protecting Stiles like two particularly relentless mama bears very seriously. 

He should probably warn Derek that there’s a shovel talk in his future.

Stiles groans, shaking his hand out. “Come on. You promised you wouldn’t embarrass me.”

“No, my husband promised he wouldn’t embarrass you. I made no such agreement.”

Melissa laughs, Stiles glares, and Reyna darts forwards to press a kiss to his cheek. She picks up the pot like it weighs nothing and saunters across the room. 

Scott bounces to the table, taking a seat next to his mother and John. Derek is seated at the other end, on Deucalion’s right. There’s an empty seat between him and Cora, who’s chatting away with Lincoln across the table.

Stiles plops himself into the empty seat. Plates loaded with sauteed vegetables, roasted chicken, and rosemary potatoes sit at the center of the table. Stiles’ mouth waters as he loads up his plate. 

He shovels a forkful of potatoes into his mouth and moans at the taste. Reyna looks on, a smirk plastered across her face as she attempts to wrangle Chloe into her seat.

“You’re my favorite,” Stiles says, mouth full, pointing at Reyna with a drumstick. 

“I thought I was your favorite,” Cora says, pouting with devious eyes.

Stiles snorts, choking on his food. He swallows. “Sure, when you’re not threatening me with bodily harm.”

Deucalion chuckles. 

Derek sits in silence, shoulders tense. He looks around the table like he’s trying to keep track of all the conversations happening around him at once. He drops a hand to Stiles’ thigh, squeezing tightly, his anxiety obvious in the gesture. Stiles pats the top of his hand.

Despite her posturing, Reyna remains amicable throughout dinner. She asks Cora about her travels and gently encourages Derek to open up and talk about the rest of his pack. The two bottles of wolfsbane-infused beer Lincoln offers him after dinner also help take the edge off. By the time they head back up to their rooms, Derek’s shoulders have loosened along with his tongue.

“You’ll meet the rest of the pack tomorrow,” Stiles tells Derek and Cora as they trudge up the stairs. “Mason and Liam's families are at Mason’s older sister’s engagement party. Mason told Liam if he has to suffer then Liam does, too.”

Derek laughs. Stiles’ heart trips over itself at the sound.

Scott and Cora exchange a glance that so clearly calls their brothers idiots, they might as well be screaming from the rooftops.

“See you in the morning,” Scott says, rolling his eyes; Cora gives them a half-hearted wave, and the two of them split off to their rooms.

Stiles and Derek stand in the hallway staring at each other in silence. Derek scratches at his arm. Stiles kicks one of his feet back and forth across the carpet.

“Well—” Derek drags a hand through his hair. “Goodnight.” He walks into the guest room before Stiles has a chance to respond.

“Goodnight,” Stiles says to the closed door. He enters his own room and shuts the door. He thumps his head against the wood. 

He’s hopeless.

“Why?” Stiles whines, shaking his hands at the ceiling. He leaps across the room and topples backward onto his bed. Scott lies down at his side, and Stiles buries his face in his shoulder.

“You’re hopeless, dude.”

“I know,” Stiles moans into his shirt before Scott even finishes speaking. 

Scott pats his back. “Wanna play Animal Crossing until we pass out?”

“God, yes.”

Scott falls asleep the way he always does — on his stomach, one arm shoved up under his pillow, his phone beside him on the bed. Stiles huffs a laugh when he looks at him. He plugs his phone into the charger, lays his head back on the pillow, and tries to fall asleep.

 _Try_ being the operative word. Stiles tosses and turns, but he can’t seem to get comfortable. First, he’s too cold, so he pulls on a pair of thick socks and burrows under the covers. Then, he’s too hot. Grunting, he kicks off his socks and throws the duvet down to the bottom of the bed. He lies back down with a sigh.

Ten minutes later, he’s cold again.

“I give up,” Stiles mutters. Scott lets out a snore in agreement.

He sits up and grabs his phone, taking a picture of Scott with his mouth wide open, drooling into the pillow. Blackmail material at it’s finest. Stiles drops the phone to his bed, snickering to himself. He’d feel bad, but that’s not his style. 

Also, Scott has a password-protected folder on his computer labeled _Blackmail for Batman_ , so. Tit for tat and all that jazz.

Stiles doesn’t bother getting out of his pajamas. He grabs his phone, puts on a pair of socks, and heads downstairs. At the door, Stiles throws on his coat, boots, and scarf, drags a beanie he’s pretty sure belongs to Reyna on top of his head, and walks outside. He makes a beeline to the old, half-rusted bench overlooking the lake. It’s his favorite place on the entire property to relax.

He sits down and shoves his hands into his pockets, making a face when he comes up empty. He must have left his gloves in his room. He sighs and shoves his hands under his thighs, too tired to exert the energy for a heating spell.

He looks up when the front door opens, frowning as Derek walks out and slips a pair of gloves on his hands. Derek pauses when he sees Stiles, just for a moment, then steps off of the porch.

“Hey,” Stiles says as Derek walks over to join him on the bench. “Can’t sleep?”

“I always struggle to sleep when I’m this far away from the rest of the pack. Not knowing if they’re safe… not being close if they need me…” Derek sits down and shakes his head. “That and Cora snores.” 

Stiles snorts. 

Derek tilts his head to the side. There’s a frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “I mean, I guess.”

Memories of his mother lurk around every corner. The Christmas tree they used to decorate together is standing in the living room, ten feet tall, older than Stiles, and fake because Reyna is allergic to pine. Lincoln and John would get tangled up in the Christmas lights, while their wives ignored their plight. Inevitably, Deucalion would roll his eyes and come to their rescue.

Her favorite reading pillow still sits in a basket next to her favorite corner of the couch. Her records are still underneath the table in the study with a Beatles album in Deucalion’s old Victrola. The frayed quilt on Cora’s bed in the guest room was created by his mother’s hands. 

Those reminders of her make him smile.

Stiles glances at the snow-covered hill at the other end of the property where he almost lost everything the day his mother died. His chest twists. He’s happy to be home, but sometimes, he hates it, too.

Derek asks, quiet, “Do you want to talk about it?”

The wind kicks up an icy breeze that cuts straight through every layer of clothing to Stiles’ skin. He huddles down further in his coat. His knuckles are red and half-frozen, and he rubs them together for warmth. Eventually, he’ll explain everything to Derek. But not tonight. “Not right now.” 

Stiles startles as Derek gently pries his hands apart, cupping them between his own. The suede of his gloves feels soft and luxurious against Stiles’ skin. The runes on his fingers glow for a brief moment before lying dark again.

“Did I ever tell you why Boyd’s cousins and Erica’s younger sisters aren’t allowed alone in a room together?”

Stiles’ brow furrows at the non sequitur. “No?” He draws out the word, voice rising slightly at the very end.

Derek smiles and tells Stiles about “The Holiday Food Fight of 2015.” Apparently, the apartment was full to the brim with people. Kira’s parents drove in from Westchester; Malia’s father took Amtrak down from Buffalo. Boyd’s aunt and three cousins — all younger boys — flew in from San Diego, while Erica’s mother and two younger sisters took the subway from Brooklyn.

“There was no way to keep track of everybody coming and going,” Derek says; his face breaks into a smile. “We didn’t realize the kids had disappeared until one of them screamed. By the time we rushed into the kitchen, the food fight was in full swing.” Derek groans, overdramatic, like the memory is more painful than it actually is. “Clothes covered in gravy, pasta in their hair. There were mashed potatoes on the ceiling.”

Stiles barks a laugh that echoes across the lake. “Sounds like my kind of party.” He bites his lip, glancing up at Derek’s face, his cheeks pink from the wind.

He leans in until he can drop his head to Derek’s shoulder. There’s a moment’s pause before Derek slides his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. 

Stiles tucks his hands into his sleeves, and Derek rubs his hand slowly up and down Stiles’ arm, keeping him warm. Stiles hums and closes his eyes. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispers, not wanting to break the surprising intimacy of the moment. 

Derek tilts his head until his cheek rests against Stiles’ hair. “Me too.”


End file.
